


softly it falls

by akaparalian



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha Shiro (Voltron), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Domestic, Everyone Thinks They're Together, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Omega Keith (Voltron), Top Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 04:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17891822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian
Summary: When Keith says “I need a favor” while they’re sitting on the couch eating microwave popcorn and watching a stupid B-list horror movie on a Saturday night, Shiro is expecting to drive him somewhere, lend him something, or maybe — at the extreme — go as his date to a work event so he doesn’t have to spend the evening alone.





	softly it falls

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Sheithlentines, Soph! I hope you liked this! I found your prompts really inspiring -- as soon as I saw both "alpha Shiro" and "bottom Shiro" in your requests (not to mention "domestic" and "mutual pining"), I knew it was fate that I was assigned to write for you, haha. Sorry it took so long -- it took a while for me to be satisfied with the ending.
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter,](http://twitter.com/akaparalian) [Tumblr](http://floralegia.tumblr.com), and [Dreamwidth](http://akaparalian.dreamwidth.org).
> 
> Title is from "Over the Garden Wall."

When Keith says “I need a favor” while they’re sitting on the couch eating microwave popcorn and watching a stupid B-list horror movie on a Saturday night, Shiro is expecting to drive him somewhere, lend him something, or maybe — at the extreme — go as his date to a work event so he doesn’t have to spend the evening alone. They’ve done that before; Keith’s coworkers also happen to be longtime friends of his mother’s who often helped take care of him when he was a kid, and as such, they’re as invested in his happiness and love life as any group of meddling relatives and bug him if he ever shows up to a team-building dinner or a holiday party alone, pinning him with pointed “When are you going to settle down?”-type questions. Going with Shiro is a stopgap, at least, though even attending those dinners as Keith’s friend has won Shiro some very intense, narrow-eyed stares and a couple of conversations with Kolivan which were mostly just an amalgamation of poorly-veiled threats.

Keith doesn’t ask for a ride, though, or to borrow something, or for Shiro to keep him company at a work dinner to get his coworkers-slash-family off his back. Instead he fidgets, picking at his cuticles and not quite meeting Shiro’s eyes. His scent, normally warm and comforting — motor oil and desert sun and a hint of campfire smoke — has gone sour, and it sets Shiro’s teeth on edge, warning bells ringing in his head. 

“Keith?” he prompts gentle, and then, when Keith stays silent and still won’t meet his eyes, “Come on, Keith, you know you can ask me anything. Remember the Bowl-O-Rama incident? I doubt whatever you’re gonna say is worse than _that_.”

“It’s way worse,” Keith mutters, then sighs, then squirms. Even if Shiro couldn’t smell him — if he didn’t know Keith’s scent inside-out to such a degree that every slight shift in mood is obvious — his embarrassment and discomfort would be more than clear. But there’s something else, too, something Shiro can’t quite identify, and that, more than anything, is what makes his heart start to beat faster even before Keith finally looks him in the eyes.

“I need you to help me with my heat,” Keith says, and Shiro feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

—

Shiro agrees, obviously, because he would do anything for Keith — _anything_ — and also because it’s not _that_ big of a deal. Really. Friends do this kind of thing for each other _all the time_ , he tells himself firmly. They’ve lived together for almost five years now; they’ve shared nearly every _other_ part of their lives. Why not share this one?

“Thank you, seriously,” Keith tells him fervently, setting the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table so he can lean in a little closer and settling into the couch cushions. His level of ease now is night and day compared to just a few minutes ago; his scent, too, is totally transformed, happy and bright and clear, with a candy-sweet note over the top that reminds Shiro of cherries, or maybe cherry pie. “I know this is another level, but it’s just… there’s no one else I could ask. There’s just no one else I trust as much as you.”

“I promise, Keith, it’s really fine,” Shiro says, which is even _mostly_ true. “I mean, you’d do it for me, wouldn’t you?”

Asking this question turns out to be a mistake, because it immediately brings to mind the thought of himself in rut and — critically — Keith with him, Keith under him or, maybe, over him, or — 

Shiro slams the lid on that train of thought as quickly and tightly as possible and coughs, hoping his face isn’t too red.

“Of course I would,” Keith replies, either not noticing or just choosing not to comment on Shiro’s momentary lapse. “But still. Thanks. I mean it.”

“Okay, okay, you’re welcome,” Shiro says, laughing a little in an attempt to defuse the seriousness of the situation. Then he hesitates, thinks for a moment, and shoots himself in the foot by slowly saying, “Can I ask you something, though?”

Keith sighs out through his nose. “Why am I not just going to a heat hotel like I normally do?”

Shiro nods silently. It’s not that he’s ever been particularly happy with the idea of Keith spending his heats surrounded by strangers — some part of him, an instinct to protect the people he cares about that’s both an inherent part of his personality and bolstered by his alpha instincts, has always been terrified that someone will take advantage or hurt Keith when he’s at his most vulnerable, and Shiro won’t be there to help him — but he _does_ love Keith for who he is, and that includes his deep-seated sense of independence. And, no matter what, he’d never want to try and impose his own thoughts or worries onto Keith unless there was real evidence that he was somehow in danger, not that he thinks Keith would let him. So he’s never brought it up before now, not in all the years they’ve known each other and not even in the time they’ve been living together, when he’s had to watch Keith pack a bag and then disappear for a few days four times a year, but if Keith is asking _Shiro_ to help him with his heat instead of going to a professional…

“My heats are getting worse,” Keith says, tone cautious and guarded, and Shiro frowns.

“Worse? Worse how?”

He gets a shrug in response, one-shouldered, as Keith visibly flushes to the tips of his ears. He’s not exactly a shy person, normally, but then this isn’t exactly a normal conversation — and the way he looks with his cheeks red and his eyes downcast isn’t exactly helping Shiro stay detached or think about the situation analytically.

“They just — I’m getting older,” Keith says finally, his voice a bit rough around the edges. “They’re getting harder — worse — because my body thinks I should be mated and popping out babies by now. It’s… it’s not something I can do alone anymore, or with a stranger, unless I want it to take a week.”

Shiro blinks. “ _That’s_ why your last one was so long? Keith, why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Your reaction is exactly why,” Keith says dryly, smirking at him a little. “I didn’t want to… I don’t know, guilt you into it by making you think I’d be suffering if you said no. But you said yes all on your own, so…”

“But _wouldn’t_ you be suffering?” Shiro says, frowning. How many heats have been worse for Keith than they had to be because he didn’t want to ask? How long since strangers stopped being enough?

“I’m a big boy, Shiro,” is all Keith says, which isn’t a no. In fact, it’s pretty damn close to a yes.

Shiro leans back a little, in part to disguise the way he’s scenting Keith as carefully as possible, trying to get any data he can from the nuances of his scent. There’s nothing, though, or at least nothing that wasn’t there before, so he’s left mostly with his own thoughts — which is unfortunate, because they’re running wild.

Are they going to tell people? They’ll have to — at the very least, they’ll both have to notify their employers, and Shiro can’t _wait_ to see what Kolivan’s ‘Keith’s platonic heat partner’ glare is like with how bad the ‘Keith’s friend’ one already is. But are they going to tell their _friends?_ And are they going to spend the heat here — surely they will, if the whole point is that Keith needs something familiar and known, something he can trust, but are they going to do it in Keith’s room or his own? Is Shiro going to go to sleep once it’s over on pillows that still smell a little bit like his best friend, refusing to wash them until the last touches of scent have faded away? Are they going to talk about it afterwards, or is it going to fade into nothing, maybe just an occaisional wink-wink-nudge-nudge joke when heats come up in conversation, maybe just an awkward, stifled sense of shame?

And most importantly, why did Keith ask _him_? Is it just trust, like he said — or, a dangerous voice whispers in the back of Shiro’s head, is it something more?

Once again, he has to violently rein himself in. It’ll be okay, he tells himself. Keith is one of his oldest friends; there’s a level of trust between them that simply doesn’t exist with any of their other friends and never has. He’s an alpha, and he’s a friend — he’s familiar — and he’ll do a good job of helping Keith with his heat. That’s all it is. That’s _got_ to be all it is.

It’ll be okay.

—

It’s not okay.

“I understand taking it slow, but Jesus, you two are ridiculous,” Lance says, rolling his eyes and patting Shiro on the arm. “I honestly can’t believe he finally got the guts up to ask you! I mean, _how_ long have you been living together, and this is the first time you’ve shared a heat with him? Glaciers move faster, Shiro. _Glaciers_.”

Keith had texted Lance about it last night, apparently — which is a whole world of confusion as far as Shiro’s concerned; apparently they _are_ telling people, but with what Lance is saying now, Shiro is dying to know what exactly Keith said to him, and in how many words — and Lance had cornered Shiro as soon as he got into work this morning. Usually, Shiro _loves_ working with friends; it’s part of why he’s stayed with Garrison so long, when he’s had quite handsome offers from other companies. Today, however, he’s not quite feeling the love.

“I think you and I have different ideas about milestones,” Shiro says, firm, if a little dazed. “Keith and I are best friends.”

“Yeah, and that’s a great foundation for a relationship! I don’t see why you felt like you needed to wait _five years_ to spend a heat together, but — oh, whatever. I’m just glad you’re doing it now. So, are you ready yet? Because believe me, I _know_ heats, and I have an itemized list of all the things Keith’s ever mentioned to me about his. Okay, so to start out, you’re gonna want —”

This is the point at which Shiro tunes him out, because if he’s getting information from anyone on how to handle Keith’s heat, he wants it to be Keith, and also because Lance has sent him into a little bit of a panicked tailspin. _A great foundation for a relationship_ , Lance had said, and he — he doesn’t seem like he’d been surprised _at all_ that Keith asked Shiro to share his heat. He seems like he’s been _waiting_ for it, expecting it. 

“Lance,” Shiro says, interrupting him midstream; Lance sits there with his mouth hanging open where he’s perched on the corner of Shiro’s desk, both eyebrows raised expectantly. Shiro thinks about saying something like _This isn’t a work-appropriate conversation_ , but that feels like a cop-out when what he really wants to ask is… well. “Lance, do you think Keith and I are dating?”

“Oh, shit, is it _still_ supposed to be a secret?” Lance replies, which serves only to ratchet Shiro’s confused panic up another couple of levels. “Even though you’re sharing a heat? Seriously?” 

“Secret — there’s no _secret!_ ” Shiro sputters, leaning back and away. “There’s nothing to _keep_ secret. Lance, what are you _talking_ about?”

Lance utterly speechless is not a sight many people have ever been treated to; Shiro’s known him for years, and can count the times he’s been wordless on one hand with fingers left over. Now, though, Lance’s mouth slowly opens and closes for almost a full minute, with only the occasional gasping noise coming out.

“You—?” he manages, finally, and Shiro frowns at him.

“We’re not dating,” he says, just to make sure everybody is on the same page and everything is abundantly clear. “We never have.”

“But he — but you — are you _sure?_ ” Lance asks, flabbergasted, and Shiro flushes and looks away.

“Lance,” he says. It comes out shorter than he means it to; it’s not Lance’s fault, Shiro shouldn’t take any of this out on him, but he’s already been freaking out about this since Keith asked him, the confusion and anxiety and desperate hope a low-grade buzzing at the back of his mind at all times, and having it spelled out like this — God, do _all_ of their friends think they’re dating, or is Lance alone? He doesn’t even want to ask. “Seriously. We’re not dating. Trust me, if there was something there, I would have noticed by now.” 

Lance narrows his eyes, leaning forward again, his brain clearly working. “Wait, what does _that_ mean?”

“Nothing,” Shiro says quickly. “Forget I said anything — you know, I should really get back to work —”

“Okay, no, this is very good, I can work with this,” Lance says. “I mean, wild, but doable. Okay, so you _are_ in love with him, you’re just not dating, is that what I’m getting here?”

Shiro chokes.

“You guys are even more hopeless than I thought!” He sounds damnably cheerful about it, though, and he shoots Shiro a decidedly conspiratorial grin. “This is fixable, _and_ it means you guys haven’t been hiding your relationship from us for years like we all thought, which means you _do_ trust us and know we love you, you’re just idiots. That’s great news!”

“Great news?” Shiro asks, dazed, but Lance hardly seems to notice. 

“Look, listen to me very carefully,” he says, completely ignoring the way Shiro is slowly, despairingly shaking his head. “He. Is. Into you. He’s so incredibly into you that I thought you guys had been together for years. _Me!_ Keith gives you googly eyes that fooled _me_ into thinking you two were doing it on the regular! That is powerful stuff, my friend!”

There are two parts of Shiro’s psyche each having a field day at the moment. One is screaming in horror, because Lance is wrong — he’s _so_ far off base — and Shiro is going to have to convince him of that, somehow.

The other one is swelling with hope, because Shiro’s been in love with his best friend for years, and now someone’s telling him he could have had something real all along. Hope, while he’s sure it’s only going to hurt him more in the long run, is at this point inescapable.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he groans, because that’s something both his sense of optimism and his sense of pessimism can agree on.

“Okay, you’re gonna need some evidence,” Lance says, nodding to himself, his eyes scanning over Shiro’s face. “Should’ve known. The good news is, there’s so much evidence that I’m frankly appalled you haven’t caught on by now.”

“Please,” Shiro grits out, “enlighten me.”

“He looks at you like you just saved his dog from getting run over, but like, all the time,” Lance says immediately, ticking things off on his fingers. “He willingly spends time with you even when he’s exhausted with everyone else, and it seems to make him actually feel _better_. You knew he had a mom.”

“Technically speaking, everyone has a mom, Lance,” Shiro argues, but it sounds weak even to him; Lance just rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, but not everyone’s mom is in their life, just like we assumed Keith’s mom wasn’t, because _you were the only one who knew she existed_ ,” he says. “What else… Oh! Well, gee, Shiro, I don’t know, how often do you think people casually ask their friends to share their heats with them? That goes above and beyond the call.”

“All the time! It’s the twenty-first century!” Shiro argues, sitting up a little straighter. Lance isn’t exactly the type to shame someone for spending their heat without a mate — Shiro’s heard him and Keith debate ranking the heat hotels in their area enough times to know that for sure, if nothing else — but he still can’t help but feel a little flare of protectiveness, not wanting to hear anyone judge Keith for doing what he has to do to have a heat that doesn’t make him miserable. “And people have been doing friends with benefits since probably the dawn of time —”

“Friends with benefits, sure, fine!” Lance interrupts, sounding increasingly frustrated. “But _heats_ with benefits is not a thing! Or — friends with heat benefits? Whatever! The _point_ is — that’s just not something people do, at least not people like Keith! Come on, could you see him asking _me?”_

No, not at all — nor Hunk, nor Pidge, nor any of their other friends, but Shiro doesn’t quite want to admit that. He frowns.

“Come on,” he says, trying to change tracks a little, “this is _Keith_ we’re talking about. He and I, we’d trust each other with anything, and he’s a pretty blunt guy. Why wouldn’t he just tell me if there was something there?”

Lance throws his hands up in the air. “Probably because he’s as deluded as you are! Jesus, I should get paid for this,” he adds in a mutter.

“Look,” Shiro says, rubbing his temples. “I can’t deal with this right now. If _nothing_ else, he needs my help with the heat — I’m not going to make it weird. He said they were getting _bad_ , Lance, I…” He hesitates, burying his head in his hands, only barely peeking out through his fingers. “I can’t make him uncomfortable with me. I won’t.”

“He’s in love with you!” Lance cries. He looks about three seconds from grabbing Shiro by the shoulders and shaking him, and if he does something like that right now, Shiro might snap. He feels like he might snap regardless, though whether from irritation or anxiety he can’t say.

“Even if that’s true,” he says, as evenly as possible, “I need to hear it from him.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Lance lets out a gusty sigh. “Fine,” he says at length, and Shiro slowly sits up.

“Fine?”

“Fine,” Lance repeats; he’s gone from looking almost jokingly irritated to genuinely troubled, and the expression he’s leveling at Shiro is unreadable. “Just — be careful with him. Be careful what you _say_. And promise me you’ll at least think about what _I_ said. You guys are two of my best friends, I just — I want you to be happy, you know.”

“I know,” Shiro replies softly. “And I know you mean well. Now just… isn’t the right time.”

Lance rolls his eyes again at that, but he’s smiling fondly, and he leans in to clap Shiro on the shoulder. “If I waited for you to decide it was the right time, we’d all be in a retirement home together before you said anything,” he scoffs. “I gotta push you a _little_ bit.”

“Only a little bit,” Shiro acquiesces. Then he glances meaningfully at his desk, covered in work, and his computer, with his open email inbox full of unread messages and meeting requests, and Lance holds up his hands, backing away.

“Yeah, yeah, I should get back to work too,” he says. “Good luck with — well, you know. Call me if you need advice. I really do know all the best tips and tricks.”

“I’m sure you do,” Shiro says dryly. “See you later, Lance.” 

Shiro gives himself a moment, when Lance disappears from view, to mull over everything that he said — to soak it in, and to let himself process it, and to scream internally. Then he very carefully turns to his computer, resets his brain as best he can, and tries to pretend that he and Lance never had that conversation at all. Lance never said that their friends believe that Shiro and Keith are dating and have been for some time, Lance never told him Keith was in love with him, and, most of all, Shiro never believed him, not even for a second.

But if he doesn’t get any work done for the rest of the day, well. He’s not sure he’s altogether to blame.

—

It doesn’t take Shiro very long at all to decide that, whatever Lance has got in his head and whether or not any of it is true, there’s only one person he can ask about anything to do with Keith’s heat, Keith’s feelings, or Keith’s thoughts, and that’s Keith. And while he’s sure as hell not going to ask any questions that might make Keith feel uncomfortable about spending his heat with Shiro, there _are_ some questions he needs to ask in order to make sure that he enjoys it, assuming he doesn’t reverse his decision to do so.

Keith doesn’t get home until a couple of hours after Shiro does that night, so by the time he slumps through the door, hair flattened to his forehead by the light rain that’s pattering against the windowpane, Shiro’s already had dinner and sprawled himself out across the full length of their couch, nose buried in a book. He looks up when Keith walks in, though, and smiles, because no matter how weird his day was, the sight of Keith is enough to perk him up instantly.

“Hey,” he calls softly, and Keith shoots him an answering grin as he crosses to the hall closet to hang up his jacket.

“Good day?” Keith asks, and Shiro hesitates, not quite sure how to answer that. By the time he’s finally settled on wiggling his hand in a ‘so-so’ motion, Keith has shoved his legs out of the way so that he can flop down on the far end of the couch and is frowning at him.

“Not so good, then,” he says, and when Shiro grimaces in answer, he adds, “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing — you know, nothing big,” he says hastily. Then he hesitates, not quite sure how to ask what he wants to ask — it had seemed like a good idea an hour ago, when he was waiting for Keith to get home, but now it seems like he’s jumping headfirst into something that maybe requires a little more tact than sitting on the couch after they’ve both had a long day at work can provide. Still, he’s here now, and he tells himself it’s too late to chicken out; he gives Keith a lopsided, slightly sheepish grin before he says, “I guess I’ve just, um, been worrying about some stuff with — with your heat.”

Keith actually looks a little relieved at that; he nods, sinking back into the couch cushions a little further, and pats Shiro’s leg reassuringly. “I thought you might have some questions,” he admits. “You know, once you… thought about it. You can ask me anything.”

“Well, I just…” Shiro trails off, staring determinedly at a small stain on the sweatpants he’d changed into after work rather than having to look Keith in the face. “I just — I shouldn’t have to ask you this, I’m sorry, but what kind of stuff should I get for you? To help you prepare?”

“Oh,” Keith says, his mouth falling open a little in surprise. “Is that all? I thought it was gonna be _way_ worse than that, with the way you’re acting. And what do you mean, you shouldn’t have to ask? Of course you have to ask. You’re not a mind-reader.”

Shiro’s honestly not quite sure how to respond to that, because the truthful answer is _I mean that it makes me feel like a bad alpha — I should be able to provide better. I want to treat you well_. There are a number of problems with that, though. One, he tries not to give into reductive, designationist thoughts like that; once you start throwing around evaluations of how ‘good’ of an alpha or omega or beta someone is, which really usually translates to how well they suit traditional designational roles, you’re starting down a pretty slippery slope to ‘omegas should stay at home and mind the pups,’ in Shiro’s mind. 

And, two, he’s not even Keith’s alpha. So.

“I just — well, I know some of the basics, I just wanted to make sure I got the stuff you liked best,” he says instead, a non-answer that sidesteps what Keith had actually asked but stays close enough that hopefully it’s not obvious how much Shiro’s trying to avoid addressing it. “And if there’s anything else — anything, I don’t care what it is — I want to get it for you. I want to make this as good an experience for you as possible.”

Keith pats his calf again and smiles softly, a soft, faint blush just barely coloring his cheeks. “Well, I mean — for the basics, high-calorie foods. Um, usually I eat a lot of ramen, just because it’s cheap and super fast to make, but there’s probably better stuff, honestly. I’m not picky. Lots of water, and sports drinks, and stuff like that. Towels, wet wipes… sorry, that probably doesn’t sound all that fun,” he concludes, wrinkling his nose a little.

Wet wipes and towels don’t exactly come as a surprise, though — and anyway, if he was going to be weird about that, Shiro wouldn’t deserve to share Keith’s heat. He shakes his head quickly, frowning a little. “No, no, don’t worry about that. I’m not… that’s not a problem.” He waits until Keith’s face clears a little as he nods, and then Shiro steels himself, because this is the big one. He takes a deep breath, once again failing to meet Keith’s eyes, and says, “Anything else? ...Toys?”

Keith’s blush darkens by several shades, but he doesn’t react other than that, only calmly shaking his head and saying, “No, not when I’m with a partner, usually.” But then he visibly hesitates, biting his lip and ducking his head a little to stare up at Shiro through the curtain of his bangs, which have mostly dried now that he’s inside and out of the rain and are fluffy and a little bit curly at the ends. 

“Um, but,” he says, at length, and something about his tone of voice sends a thrill of heat and anticipation through Shiro’s gut. “There is one thing.”

“Name it,” Shiro says immediately, not even fully realizing the way his voice suddenly sounds a little rough around the edges, but _definitely_ realizing the way Keith’s blush gets even darker, though his eyes are still glittering and sharp. There’s a hint of a smell in the air, Shiro realizes even as he’s speaking, that’s suddenly slipped from Keith’s normal, familiar, comforting scent to something that’s shot through with arousal, and as soon as he has half a second to think of what that must mean, Shiro’s chest grows tight.

“Well,” Keith says slowly, still looking at Shiro from under his bangs, still blushing, and now biting his lip, too; the combined effect is enough, Shiro thinks half-wildly, to drive a man to insanity, but for the moment, at least, he’s managing to hang on. “I don’t know if you’ve ever helped an omega with head ebefore, but I have some… unusual preferences. Or I think they’re unusual, anyway. I’ve been told.”

Shiro takes a deep breath, trying to center himself. It doesn’t work, because he can still smell Keith’s arousal in the air — though he can now easily detect an undercurrent of nervousness as well — but surely it’s the thought that counts.

“I’ve never…” he says, trailing off. He can’t quite finish the thought, but it doesn’t seem that he needs to; Keith nods anyway. He takes another deep breath and only regrets it a little before he adds, “But what I care about is you, anyway. No matter how weird you think it is, I don’t care about that; I care about making you happy.”

“I mean, it’s not _weird-_ weird,” Keith admits, cocking his head to the side a little, baring just a sliver of throat. It doesn’t seem like he’s done it intentionally — it’s just a thoughtless little gesture, as he scrunches up his nose and licks his lips and tries to decide what to say, if Shiro’s any judge — but that doesn’t mean it’s any less impactful. “It’s just… not very ‘omega.’”

“Keith, when have I _ever_ cared about that? I care about what _you_ want — who _you_ are — not what ‘an omega’ ‘should’ want,” Shiro says, throwing in air-quotes that make Keith crack a smile that’s only slightly wavery at the edges. “Besides,” he adds, a little more seriously, with a slightly self-deprecating half-smile, “I’m not exactly an alpha’s alpha myself.”

Keith nods, slowly, then says, “Okay, well…” He hesitates for just one more moment before he sighs, and the arousal in his smell redoubles, and he says, “There’s a certain point in my heat where I just wanna get fucked. I’m pretty sure that’s how it works for most omegas. But, usually — you know, when I’m not in heat — I prefer topping. So early in the heat, when I’m just horny, and not, like, specifically looking for a knot…”

Shiro stopped breathing somewhere in there, he’s certain of it, and he’s certainly not breathing now. He’s not even sure that his heart is still beating, and all higher brain function has definitely stopped.

“I’ve got good news,” he says, and he even manages to murmur it instead of wheezing it, which seems like a miracle.

Keith tilts his head to the side again, and this time it seems much, much more like it’s on purpose. “What?”

“I usually prefer to bottom.”

There’s a moment of silence, both of them staring at each other, and then all at once it’s broken when they both double over in laughter. Keith ends up basically hugging Shiro’s legs to his chest, so Shiro can feel the way his shaking and wheezing, and it takes several long minutes before either one of them gets it under control.

Finally, Keith sits back up, wiping his eyes, and says, “We made a way bigger deal out of that than we needed to, didn’t we?”

“Maybe a little,” Shiro admits, smiling at him. “But at least now we know we can talk about things like that. I mean what I said; I want this to be good for you.”

“It will be,” Keith promises, smiling softly. There’s a beat, and then he adds, more softly, “ _You_ will be.”

Neither of them says much more on the subject after that — they settle on watching TV instead of having any other potentially uncomfortable, serious, and/or sex-related conversations — but Shiro doesn’t think he’ll be forgetting that thread of arousal in Keith’s scent for a long time. 

—

Shiro decides that asking off work for a couple of extra days around the time where they think Keith’s heat is likely to start, rather than waiting for Keith to call him and only leaving work then, was worth it in the exact instant where he first takes a breath in and smells what is, undeniably, the scent of Keith’s heat.

He doesn’t do or say anything about it right away, though, and neither does Keith; the start of his heat, it seems, is gradual. Shiro first smells it in the morning, while they’re eating breakfast; it gets stronger and stronger while they laze around the house, and when, at one point, Keith goes to take a shower, it seems like it’s doubled in the time that he was gone, but beyond the smell, the actual effects on Keith seem to be moving at a snail’s pace.

Keith pinning Shiro up against the wall when he gets up to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water and kissing his neck is _not_ gradual. It’s unmistakable, from the warm, slick press of his tongue against the column of his throat to the soft noise of satisfaction that Keith muffles against his skin. Shiro takes a deep, heaving, unsteady breath, and his hand cups the back of Keith’s head, fingers tangling in his hair almost instinctively.

“Bedroom?” he asks, because it’s more or less the only thing he can think to say — the only thing, for that matter, that he can hold in his head for longer than a second, beyond a much less helpful _Shit, this is really happening_. 

But Keith shakes his head. “We’ve got plenty of time to mess up the sheets later,” he says, and Shiro shivers at the way Keith’s lips brush against his skin. “Here’s good for now.”

Shiro couldn’t argue with that even if he wanted to, and he absolutely, emphatically does not want to. 

Instead, he pulls Keith’s face up to his own, dragging him up onto his tiptoes to seal their mouths together, slick and hot and full of possibility. It hardly even registers, really, that it’s their first kiss — that Shiro is kissing the man he’s in love with for the first time. He’s too lost in the tangible, physical details for that level of thinking, caught up by the little growling whine in Keith’s throat and the way he clutches at the back of Shiro’s neck.

He pulls back to breathe, but Keith won’t let him; he presses forward again, insistently kissing Shiro’s mouth, and it feels like Shiro’s drowning, except that his heart is pounding with how much he loves it. He gasps for air in between kisses instead, his chest heaving, and it’s only when Keith pulls back to nip and suck at the hinge of his jaw that he gets a chance to really recover.

“Shit,” he breathes, then moans when Keith bites down on his jaw especially hard. “Fuck, _Keith,_ oh my God.”

“You smell so good,” Keith mumbles, and then kisses him again, and Shiro feels a shiver run through him. And then Keith’s hands wander from his neck down to his waist, and then to his hips, and then there are hands worming their way between him and the wall to grope his ass, and they both moan at the same time as Keith’s fingers dig into that plush swell.

“ _Yes_ ,” Keith hisses, and Shiro groans in agreement — except then Keith’s hands are dipping just a little lower, gripping at his thighs, and before he even realizes it Keith is hoisting him up into the air.

Even amid the cloud of heat-scent and the sound of Keith’s ragged breathing and the pure heat of his lips against Shiro’s throat, Shiro has a moment of clarity as Keith lifts him and pins him back against the wall. His legs automatically wrap around Keith’s waist — their height difference is only accentuated like this, but he hardly even notices, bowing his head and neck down so that Keith can keep kissing him — but somewhere high above any sort of knowledge of what his body is doing or what Keith is doing or anything else about the situation, Shiro thinks, _I should hate this_.

It’s everything that he should hate — everything that, according to society, media, popular culture, shitty jokes, and loudmouthed assholes, should have his inner alpha growling in defiance. Keith pinning him with his back to the wall, trapping him, was already bad enough; this is a whole other level. Keith is proving that he’s strong enough to physically throw Shiro around, that no matter which of them is an alpha and which is an omega, if he needed to, Keith could probably kick Shiro’s ass. Allegedly, it _should_ make Shiro feel threatened, should piss him off. 

_I should hate this,_ Shiro thinks. _But I really, really don’t_.

The rational part of him — the Normal Shiro part — feels a surge of warm affection and pride, because he knows that all of that stuff about ‘your inner alpha’ and omegas being meek and not making the first move and taking a submissive role in everything from sex to the workplace is absolute bullshit, and the fact that Keith doesn’t seem to even be _considering_ any of that just makes Shiro love him more, somehow. They’re on the same page; neither of them feels like they have to be constrained by that kind of crap, at least not with each other, at least not here.

Meanwhile, the irrational part of him — the part who’s got his dick pressed up against an omega in heat, and, more than that, an omega in heat who he’s been in love with for years — thinks it’s just about the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him.

“Fuck, baby,” he swears, and Keith makes an approving noise in his throat and rolls his hips forward, grinding their cocks together, pressing Shiro back against the wall. “God, you’re not even breaking a sweat, that’s so fucking hot—”

He spares half a second of mostly-rational thought to hope that Keith’s not going to find it weird that Shiro said he was hot, but given that they’re about to engage in — hopefully — a lot of incredibly intense sex, Shiro thinks it’s probably fine. In fact, based on Keith’s reaction, he’d say it’s _more_ than fine; Keith pulls back to grin at him, sharp and rakish and hungry, and then dives in to lick his mouth open, his hips gyrating in a steady, sinuous grind.

Shiro almost, almost feels like _he’s_ in a rut, instead of Keith being the one just tipping over the edge into his heat; his skin feels tight, and his heart is hammering in his chest so fast that it should probably be a little worrying. Instead of focusing on that, though, he just kisses Keith back as enthusiastically as he can, rutting against him and reaching down as best he can to fumble at getting Keith’s shirt off. Keith gets with the program pretty quickly, breaking their kiss for only a moment to fling the offending article of clothing off to who knows where, and then they’re biting at each other’s lips again, and Shiro abruptly realizes that, even though Keith’s still wearing pants, he can smell him starting to get slick.

He groans against Keith’s mouth and shoves at his shoulder; Keith pulls back, frowning a little, and opens his mouth as though to ask what’s wrong, but before he gets the chance, Shiro more-or-less-gracefully unwraps his legs from Keith’s waist, slips down until his feet hit the floor again, and then immediately sinks down to his knees.

Sure enough, this much closer to the source, that’s _definitely_ what the smell is, and while he didn’t really think it was possible for him to get much more turned on than he already was without coming in his pants, he can’t deny that that’s what happens. He buries his face in the front of Keith’s jeans, taking in deep, gasping lungfuls of his scent, and when he nuzzles against where Keith’s cock is very obviously straining against the denim, he can feel it twitch under his cheek.

“Fuck,” Keith chokes, and then again when Shiro reaches up to fumble with his button and zipper: “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _Shiro_ —”

“I’ve got you,” Shiro murmurs, pulling his cock out, but Keith hardly seems to notice, whining high in his throat and grabbing at Shiro’s hair instead of responding. Shiro knows how to take a cue, though, and he takes only one more minute to admire Keith’s dick — long and thick, though not nearly as large as an alpha’s, flushed reddish-purple and weeping at the tip — before he dives in.

The scent — Keith’s scent, and especially the smell of Keith’s arousal, and _especially_ the smell of him entering his heat — had been extraordinary, and Shiro had naively thought that that was what would affect him the most. He’s always been sensitive to smell, and especially Keith’s smell, since they know each other so well and have been close for so long that he knows it nearly as well as he knows his own or his family’s. The taste, though, is… Shiro laps broadly across the head of Keith’s cock, moaning shamelessly and leaving messy trails of spit as he goes at it completely without focus or any sort of sophistication or technique, entirely lost in the sensation.

Keith hisses, a clearly pleased sound, and tugs at his hair, and it’s instinct, really, to drop his jaw open and lean forward; Shiro’s given blowjobs to guys with much larger dicks, betas and even other alphas, and he knows he can take Keith’s, knows he can make it good. He _wants_ to make it good, wants to make Keith so happy that he won’t ever want to let go, wants to show him that Shiro can take care of him, can be a good alpha. The _best_ alpha. He wants to make Keith feel so incredible that he’ll never even think of going to another alpha for this ever again.

And, good lord, is he glad his mouth is full so that he can’t be saying any of that out loud.

He’s moaning, though, loud and shameless around Keith’s dick, and maybe that’s what does it, or maybe it’s the short, shallow thrusts that Keith makes into his throat, more twitches of the hips than anything — or maybe it’s just that Keith is in the early stages of heat and incredibly horny. Regardless, he’s coming down Shiro’s throat, suddenly but not altogether unexpectedly; he keeps a tight hold on Shiro’s hair through the whole thing, groaning when Shiro swallows around him again and again, trying not to let any of his cum creep out of the corners of his lips, relishing in the taste of it. _It’s proof_ , he thinks wildly — proof that Keith wants this. Proof that Shiro is good to him, good _for_ him.

When Keith’s orgasm is over, and he starts to make slightly pained noises and his hands go from tugging Shiro forward to pushing him away, Shiro leans back, shifting his weight onto his heels and leaning up against the wall. Neither of them says anything for a long moment; instead, they just breathe together. Keith gently strokes a strand of hair off of Shiro’s face, and Shiro leans into it, tilting his head up to look him in the eyes and smiling.

“...Okay,” Keith says, after a long moment. “Bedroom now.”

Shiro laughs and clambers to his feet.

—

Time seems to slip; Shiro thinks it could be minutes or hours before they reach Keith’s bedroom, but as Keith lays him out on his back on the bed and tugs his thighs apart, he’s completely, achingly aware of how hard he is, how much he _wants_.

Keith slicks his fingers — Shiro can smell _Keith’s_ slick, the tang of it unmistakable and never more appealing than when an omega is in heat, sweet and inviting and _way_ more interesting than the almost non-smell of the lube he’s using on Shiro, but there will be time for that later. For now, Keith teases at Shiro’s entrance with a slippery-wet touch and Shiro sinks his teeth into his lower lip to contain a moan.

He catches Keith’s eye for just a split second and nods, and Keith gives him what he’s wordlessly asking for, slipping a finger into him smoothly. The stretch is familiar and good; Keith’s fingers are slim, anyway, definitely slimmer than Shiro’s, so it’s far from too much. In fact, Shiro almost wants to ask for more right away, and either he says it aloud and doesn’t realize or Keith just plain reads his mind, because sure enough, a moment later there’s a second slim finger sliding in alongside the first. Keith works with his hands, and has the callouses to prove it, and they make Shiro shiver, unable to hold in his reaction this time.

“Oh my god,” he groans; it comes out practically pained, his heart rabbiting in his chest, overwhelmed. Keith is over him, leaning down close enough that his breath puffs against Shiro’s face, and Keith is _inside_ him, and Keith smells like heat and need.

Keith freezes when Shiro speaks, though, his eyebrows drawing down in concern. “What?” he asks, voice rough. “You OK?”

“I knew it was going to be good,” Shiro tells him, just far enough past the edge that he doesn’t even care if it sounds stupid, or if it’s too much. Keith seems to get it, and starts moving again immediately, smirking down at him a little and scissoring his fingers, stretching Shiro’s rim and getting him ready for something much better than fingers.

Shiro’s head swims just thinking about it, and the words keep pouring out, his breath hitching and interrupting in places as Keith’s fingers speed up inside him. “I knew you were going to be so good, Keith,” he groans, “but I…”

Keith does something Shiro can’t even describe, some twisting motion, and all at once it’s too much: the smell of him, and the touch, and the knowledge that no matter what — no matter _what_ they tell themselves — they can never again go back to exactly how things were before this, the knowledge that this is a breaking point. Between one breath and the next, Shiro’s chest gets tight, and before he can even say anything, Keith stops moving.

He’s still teetering right on the edge of a full heat; it’s obvious just looking at him, let alone smelling him, and Shiro can hardly avoid either, with how close together they are. But, just as obviously, he’s deeply concerned, using the hand that’s not occupied to gently cup Shiro’s cheek. It should be next to impossible for him to get distracted from the task at hand at this point — through simple biology, not any callousness of his own — especially given that Shiro hasn’t told him that anything is actually wrong. Next to impossible, that is, given that they aren’t mates.

They’re just friends, aren’t they? Shiro is just doing Keith a favor — a big favor, sure, but not unprecedented. Except, Shiro thinks suddenly, blinking through the fog of emotions and the lump in his throat, the way that Keith is looking at him isn’t “just friends.” And the way he smells…

He smells like heat, certainly, and regular old sex, on top of his normal base scent — his unmistakable Keith scent — but he smells like something else, too, Shiro realizes, staring up at him and taking in deep, gasping breaths. Not just heat, and not just sex, and not just Keith.

_God,_ Shiro thinks, _how did I not notice it before?_

“Keith,” he says, or tries to say, but can’t quite manage to get out more than that; Keith frowns again, tugging his fingers loose to give Shrio a well-intentioned but slightly sticky comforting thigh squeeze.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice still rough but also warm and full of concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Shiro assures him, reaching up to pet his fingers through Keith’s dark, silky hair, not quite meeting his eyes. “It’s just… I have to tell you. I can’t go any longer without telling you. Keith, I…” He hesitates just one more moment, then nearly whispers, “Keith, I love you.”

There’s a beat of silence in which Shiro doesn’t dare to actually look at Keith to gauge his reaction, trying instead to just feel it in the air. Then, “What?”

Keith doesn’t sound angry, necessarily, but then he doesn’t sound like much of anything at all. His scent, too, is suddenly full of a blankness that all but overpowers the heat-scent, and Shiro feels his heart stop in his chest.

“I… I love you,” he says, knowing he can’t exactly backtrack now, and also knowing that if he’s started this, he has to see it through. “I couldn’t go on without telling you. I’ve been in love with you for years.”

Keith is silent for a moment, unmoving, and Shiro’s chest feels so tight now that he struggles to take in a breath. When he looks up, though, peering through his eyelashes through the space between them and finally looking Keith in the face, his eyes are full of tears.

“How long,” he starts, his voice shaking, “have you been letting me go to fucking heat hotels while you were in love with me? How long could we have been doing this instead? Are you saying — are you saying I could have had you here, with me, all along?”

“I — “ Shiro tries, but Keith shakes his head sharply and cuts him off.

“No, don’t answer that,” he says, his voice softer but even less steady. “I love you too, Shiro, I do. I’ve loved you for such a long time.”

Shiro lets out a soft, almost-wounded sound and squeezes his eyes shut tight. “ _Keith_ ,” he says, with feeling, and then there’s nothing more to do except use the fingers he’s got woven through Keith’s hair to tug until he can press their lips together, trying to say without words all of the things that feel caught up in his chest, his lungs, his throat.

Keith shivers into the kiss, and shivers again when Shiro pulls away; there’s a pause, both of them just breathing heavily without saying anything, and Shiro cups his cheek only to gasp a little in awe at the way his skin is burning fever-hot.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs, and watches as Keith’s pupils dilate somehow further in response, though they already seem to be swallowing up the thin rings of his irises. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I love you. I’m here,” he adds, and Keith lets out a low, rumbling whine, squeezing his eyes shut tight before pinning Shiro with an intense look that could almost be called a glare if it weren’t so fond.

“We’re going to talk about this when I’m not in heat,” he bites out, leaning forward as he does so to nuzzle Shiro’s cheek — a tender counterpoint to the way his fingers are crawling back down Shiro’s thigh towards his hole.

“Yes,” Shiro agrees, his own voice pitching up slightly as Keith’s fingers reach their destination.

“But right now,” Keith continues, almost as though Shiro hadn’t said anything at all, the sound rumbling from his chest, rasping, “I need to fuck you.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Shiro repeats emphatically, and that’s all it takes before Keith is tugging Shiro’s calves up around his waist and sinking home.

Shiro shouts hoarsely, his fingers clenching so tightly in Keith’s hair as Keith’s cock slides into him that Keith hisses in protest even as he sinks into Shiro’s hole; he immediately lets go and pets Keith’s hair gently in apology, but Keith is in heat, so, of course, it’s going to take a lot more than a little bit of hair-pulling to slow him down. As soon as Shiro’s no longer actively pulling, Keith seems to forget about the pain entirely, focusing instead on staring down between them to where his cock is entering Shiro and biting into his own lower lip so hard that Shiro’s honestly a little shocked there’s no blood.

“Shit,” he breathes, and then without much warning, he presses all the way in, bottoming out in a slide that’s so intense that Shiro gasps and groans and is generally so distracted by the stretch that he doesn’t notice Keith shifting slightly to get better leverage and start fucking him in earnest. 

Heat is like that — it takes all the finesse out of things, leaves only the raw need, pulsing like an exposed nerve and demanding to be satisfied. Or, at least, that’s what Shiro’s always heard, and the way Keith’s hips snap forward makes it obvious that at least some of that explanation is true to life. Shiro’s mouth drops open around a groan and Keith takes it as an invitation to kiss him messily, all teeth and tongue; his hips speed up, and then his teeth tug at Shiro’s lower lip and bite down hard, and then he cries out, his frantic pace stuttering, and Shiro knows the feeling of someone coming inside him well enough to recognize it even without the sweet, high whine that pours from between Keith’s clenched teeth, broken only when he says, “Shiro, _Shiro —_ ” 

He’s shaking, and Shiro’s moving them before he even realizes what he’s doing, rolling them over with Keith’s cock still inside him even before Keith chokes out, “Shiro, need you, need you to fuck me.” 

The air is thick with the smell of slick and come — Keith’s slick, Shiro thinks, dazedly, the realization somehow taking him by surprise even after all of this, and Keith’s come, which even now drips out of Shiro’s ass as Keith manages to pull out of him and spread his legs and reach down to press at his own rim almost at the same time, his cheeks flushed red and his eyes slightly glazed under their heavy lids. 

Shiro bats his hand out of the way, though, feeling a nonsensical surge of jealousy and possessiveness — he can’t be jealous of Keith over Keith, that’s _ridiculous,_ but with the smell of heat in the air making his head swim, he can’t quite help it all the same — and squirms down the bed a little to situate himself between Keith’s thighs. Keith may have just come, his cock at least momentarily soft and laying against his belly, but Shiro certainly didn’t, and he knows full well that if he doesn’t take a minute to cool down, he’s not going to last nearly long enough to do any good helping Keith with his heat. So he thumbs lightly across Keith’s hole, which is red and shiny with slick and which flutters under his touch, and endeavors to take his time.

Keith is still early enough into his heat that he needs to be thoroughly opened and stretched anyway, his body not quite as loose and willing as it will be as the heat wears on, still adjusting to the sudden rush of heat hormones. But he’s far enough along now that he also wants it desperately, though want hardly feels like a strong enough word; the noise he makes when Shiro gives up on rubbing slowly at his rim and slips a finger inside is indescribably lewd and clearly encouraging, as is the way he bucks back immediately against the intrusion, fucking himself on Shiro’s finger fiercely enough that Shiro has to reach up immediately with his other hand and pin him down at the waist.

He feels incredible — burning hot and positively dripping wet and tight enough, as Shiro slips in a second finger and starts to slowly move them, that Shiro can tell he’ll fit like a vice around his cock, heat or no. It’s not long after the addition of the second finger that Shiro finds his prostate, crooking his fingers just so, and just like that, Keith comes again, spilling over his own stomach with a cry and arching his back so hard he rises up off the bed and falls back down with a soft _fwump._

Shiro stares down at him, blinking in awe, and runs a finger through the cum pooling in the dips of Keith’s abs, and after that, he decides that maybe he can take his time just a little bit less.

They make it to four fingers, because Shiro is nervous about anything less — he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he hurt Keith without meaning to by rushing, no matter how much Keith begs him the entire time to just fuck him, _fuck me, please, Shiro, I need it, I can take it, please —_ but by the time he pulls them out and strokes slick over his cock instead, it’s painfully obvious that they’re both teetering close to the edge. Keith is once again hard, leaking precome onto the sheets below as he twists under Shiro to get himself onto his stomach and lifts his ass up in an effort to be as enticing as possible, and Shiro has to fiercely pinch himself on the thigh when Keith presents, his ass swaying slightly as he puts his weight on his knees and elbows and bows his back, his hole puffy and ready, slick dripping all the way down his thighs. 

For a moment, he just sits there and stares, rocking back onto his heels and feeling his heart pounding in his ears, reveling in the knowledge of what’s happening and of what’s about to happen, and, more than anything, reveling in what Keith’s voice had sounded like when he’d said _I’ve loved you for such a long time_. And then, when he can’t take it for even a moment longer, he leans forward to blanket Keith’s back and lets his cock nudge up against Keith’s hole.

Keith _keens_ when Shiro pushes in, and all but screams when he bottoms out, the slide faster than he would have expected despite being just as tight as he knew it was going to be. For his part, Shiro gasps, feeling like he can’t possibly be getting enough air, and twitches his hips in tiny motions, not sure if he’s doing Keith more good by holding back and trying to go slowly than he would be by just giving him what he’s pleading for with his words and with the way he pushes his ass back relentlessly into Shiro’s hips, trying to take more of him than there is to take.

There’s going to be more soon, though — Shiro can already feel his knot starting to swell, not nearly to its full size yet but clearly enough to feel, judging by the way Keith moans and says, “Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” his voice breaking on the last word, his hole fluttering in anticipation as he clenches down. 

Shiro gets a few good strokes in, but before long, his knot is swelling properly, catching at Keith’s rim, and not long after that it gets too large for Shiro to pull out at all. _Next time_ , he tells himself as he grinds his hips in little circular motions, teetering perilously close to the edge of orgasm and delighting in the deep groans that are rumbling from Keith’s chest below him as the knot brushes up against his prostate, _next time will be a little longer, a little better —_ and the best part is, he knows there’s going to _be_ a next time, and not just becuase there are days and days of heat ahead of them, but because Keith loves him. Hopefully, there are going to be a _lot_ of next times.

Knotting makes the orgasm both slower and longer — which is very weird, when you’re used to non-knotting orgasms, and Shiro’s only ever knotted his own hand or a toy, never another person, because it takes a hell of a lot for it to happen outside of a heat or a rut. Knotting Keith is a whole other breed, and Shiro’s brain more or less whites out for the duration of the orgasm, the slow, rolling waves of pleasure sending him out of his mind. He only barely registers that Keith is coming, too, rhythmic pulses around Shiro’s cock as his hole clenches down with the force of it, making the sweet, tight pressure on his knot even sweeter.

Shiro comes back to himself, slowly, as his knot deflates, and his first instinct is to check in on Keith, who’s slumped down into the pillows. His face is turned to the side so that he can breathe, and his eyes are closed, lashes fluttering; for half a moment, Shiro actually thinks he might have fallen asleep, but then he makes a soft noise when Shiro moves to pull out and says, “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees, grinning wryly; the smile slips from his face when he looks down to take stock, replaced by a bitten lip. Keith is an absolute mess of slick and come and sweat, his whole body flushed red. He’s lucid, more or less, for now, but that won’t last long, and Shiro may not be an expert on heats, but he knows he’d better take advantage of that lucidity while he can. 

He gently flips Keith over onto his back and urges him up the bed — away from the wet spot, for one thing, and also into a sitting position, so that when Shiro reaches for the ice chest on the floor beside the bed and pulls out a Gatorade, he’s vertical enough to drink it. He accepts it gracefully when Shiro hands it to him, but Shiro still watches carefully to make sure he drinks the whole thing, not quite trusting him not to get impatient.

Sure enough, he stops after only a couple of sips to say quietly, “You said…” 

Shiro makes a little _tsk_ noise low in his throat and glares pointedly at the bottle. Keith rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling when he takes another long gulp, making it as loud as possible for show.

He drinks half the bottle before trying again, looking down at the sheets before peering up at Shiro through his lashes. The move is deceptively shy; under those fluttering black lashes, Keith’s gaze is assessing. 

“You said you’ve loved me for a long time,” he says, tapping a finger idly against the side of his bottle of Gatorade.

Shiro gulps, but nods, replying in a tone that mirrors Keith’s quiet, thoughtful voice. “Yes.”

Keith tilts his head to the side, just a little, and asks, “How long?”

It was the question he was expecting, but Shiro still isn’t quite prepared to answer it. He exhales slowly, reaching down to grab a Gatorade for himself and taking a long drink from it mostly to buy himself some time.

“Since… I don’t know,” he admits eventually, reaching out to squeeze Keith’s calf as he says it. They’re a tangle of limbs on top of the bed now, both of their mouths even redder than before thanks to their vividly-colored drinks. They’re both filthy, Keith especially so, but Shiro looks across the expanse of rumpled sheets at him and thinks that he’s maybe never looked so beautiful.

“You don’t have _any_ idea?” Keith asks, quirking an eyebrow in obvious disbelief, and Shiro huffs a laugh.

“Not before we moved in together, at least,” he says. “I like to think I would have been too smart to move in with the guy I was in love with. Though,” he adds, laughing a little, “I wasn’t smart enough to move out once I _did_ realize, so who knows?”

Keith laughs, too, and then smiles. “I’m glad you weren’t,” he says, lightly kicking out with one leg, an affectionate little tap to Shiro’s hip. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Shiro says, his voice sounding unbearably fond even to his own ears. It’s possible that, one day, he’ll grow used to this, but for now, he’s still wholly overwhelmed, in love and loved and unable to quite wrap his head around either of those things, settling instead for pure joy at the concept. “I’m glad, too.”

The way Keith smiles at him feels like the sun rising in his chest, and he has to hastily take another gulp of Gatorade to hide the way his answering smile wobbles from how hard his heart is beating.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Shiro has a thought. He snorts a little, laughing at himself, but he rolls over to get to Keith’s bedside table all the same, where Keith’s phone is sitting, plugged into its charger. Shiro knows the passcode — in hindsight, maybe _that_ should have been a sign of something — and swipes through until he gets to messages, where he quickly types one out to Lance and sends it before he can stop to second-guess himself.

_You were right,_ he types, then signs it, so Lance will know it was him even though it came from Keith’s phone, and then he locks the phone and sets it aside, resolving not to think about anything outside the scope of Keith’s bedroom and the two of them here together, at least until Keith’s heat is over. 

Keith makes a small questioning noise when Shiro sets the phone back down, but Shiro just shakes his head, smiling at him and rolling back over until they’re properly tangled together again, warm, flushed skin pressed together all over. There will be time for that later. For now, there’s this.

The signs of it aren’t obvious _quite_ yet, but Shiro can feel the pull of Keith’s heat returning deep in his gut, their little respite drawing to a close. He carefully caps his Gatorade and sets it aside; Keith chugs the rest of his and throws it across the room, the empty bottle bouncing off the wall and rolling halfway back across the floor toward them. Shiro shifts around to disentangle them, instead kneeling on either side of Keith’s hips and bracing his arms above Keith’s head.

“I really do love you, you know,” Keith says softly, looking up at him, and Shiro leans down to get on level with him, because he can’t not answer that with a kiss.

“Me, too,” he murmurs against Keith’s lips, and Keith’s response to that is obvious in a million ways: the way he shivers against Shiro’s body, the sudden smell of slick rising through the air, the hitch in his breathing. “We should really talk about that, you know. In _thorough_ detail.”

Keith hums and leans in to steal another kiss. “After all this is over,” he promises, panting a little, arching up towards Shiro’s body. “You can buy me breakfast.”

“Every morning, if you want,” Shiro swears, holding himself just far enough away to tease without making Keith feel like he’s actually holding himself back or pulling away. “Every day for the rest of our lives. I promise.”

When he finally rolls his hips down, pressing them together from toe to tip, Keith groans in delight. He grins, blinding, as he reaches up to scratch his nails through the short hair at the base of Shiro’s skull.

“I like the sound of that,” he says, and pulls Shiro down into a kiss.


End file.
